1.
Ghosts do not happen alone. Ghosts are made
from rooms and glass and cherry trees. They lie down and become
horizons. You see by them.
You remember.
2.
Some ghosts want to undo you, to take you apart.
They crawl in cupboards and bang against the wood.
They rearrange furniture and hide
your good shoe. You cannot fight them, you do
not know their names. Other ghosts want
to hold you together, to bake your favorite lemon cookies
in the middle of the night and climb in bed with you
and comb your hair with their glassy fingers.
You hate these ghosts most of all.
You know their names exactly.
3.
You know a ghost and you call her Kate. But Kate is not
her name. You knew
Kate before she was a ghost. You knew her square white teeth.
Now, Kate is a red door shutting.
Now, she is the room you sleep in. Kate sings
your favorite song until you fall asleep.
4.
The ghost is a fixed point. Winter’s
cicatrix. A cup tied to a rope tied to your neck.
You wear it like an overcoat. You want
to explain it, but to point your body toward
the ghost is language enough.
5.
You wake up and Kate is still there. She enters
by way of a mirror. She puts out her hands and tells you “take it”
but her hands are empty.
6.
You drive out of town, the ghost
is snow falling and the ghost is a trackless white
interstate. Kate tries to tell you something,
to show you where you’ve been.
Your favorite song plays on the radio.
You are not yet asleep.